


Empty Glasses and Empty Men

by Feel_How_It_Beats (1_jew_in_a_room)



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Anatole is a very minor character, Angst, Depression, Gen, Heavy Alcohol Consumption, POTENTIALLY VERY TRIGGERING, Pierre is a very sad man, Pierre-centric, Suicidal Thoughts, Very Very Angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 11:32:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15971450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1_jew_in_a_room/pseuds/Feel_How_It_Beats
Summary: Pierre has lost himself and lost the world. There is little else to say.





	Empty Glasses and Empty Men

        He reached out to take a drink from his glass only to find that it was empty. Screwing up his eyebrows he poured himself another drink from the bottle beside him - he was sure that he had just filled that glass. The disconcerted air in him melted quickly into one of a sort of desperate obsession as he turned back to his book. As he finished it, though, he felt robbed; there had been no answers to his questions or doubts in the faded, soft pages and a frustrated and bereft feeling tore through him. Why had the world forsaken him? Why did the joy he had once seen in everything fade to a nauseous, apathetic mess? He buried his face in his big hands and glanced at the clock on his desk.

 

         _It was 10:28 in the morning and Pierre was already drunk._ He knew that something inside of him was deeply wrong and it both hurt and angered him at the same time. How could he fix himself when he did not fully grasp what his ailment was? What sort of G-d would punish a man such as him in this way and give him no means to end his suffering? He had been so full of potential and now… Pierre knew he was disgusting. He knew the way that people whispered about him behind his back: _poor awkward fat Pierre. Hélèn is unfortunate to have such a husband._

 

        A sudden feeling of deep guilt washed over him. It was not G-d’s fault or the fault of some larger piece of the world that he was like this. Of course it was his own fault that he became such a despicable wretch. He had wanted to be something, to bring some sort of good into the world, and somehow he’d lost what the world around him even was. Pierre remembered with a bitter tightness in his chest his time in Paris; the times when simply a bright, lovely sky or the sweet breeze would inspire such feelings of beauty in him that he’d almost been brought to tears. Those days when he’d been so full of hope and drive to find a purpose, when the letters that would come from Andrei were simple and lovely and didn’t fill him with a jealous sort of envy that made him hate himself all the more. Tears sprung to his eyes and fell to his desk softly.

 

        He did not sob or move to wipe them away. He had barely even registered that he’d begun to cry. The world passed by outside of his window (which he’d covered long ago, the changing of the realm outside mocked him and hurt him) and he was here, stuck in the same mindless cycle. Suddenly he stood from his desk and finished the glass of wine - he could have sworn he’d just filled it, why was it already so low? - and moved unsteadily to the couch. The room spun lazily around him and his eyes slipped closed. He had not slept last night, too caught up in his own thoughts and readings that he could not even find the haven of unconsciousness. This was not uncommon these days. The cycle of day and night had blurred for Pierre and he simply slept when he could although it was not as often or for as long as he should.

 

        His head hurt when he awoke and that was the first thing he noted. The second was that it was beginning to darken outside and the third was that he was starving. His clothes and hair were far too much a mess to go and dine out in the outer reaches of his house. Everything was enemy territory aside from the havens of his study and his room. He knew he looked horrid but couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it so he decided on eating in his study. This was also not uncommon these days and he rarely left the room, somehow comfortable and stifling at the same time. As he considered food he realized with a removed annoyance that nothing sounded appetizing in the slightest. On the contrary, the idea of eating suddenly felt vile and disgusting but his body betrayed him and ached with emptiness so he rang for his dinner. When asked what he wanted he simply waved his hand in a noncommittal gesture.

 

        “I don’t care.” Pierre was exhausted. He had just woken up and he felt more tired than when he’d fallen asleep. Discouraged and angry, he shattered one of the empty glasses on his desk. A bit of glass lodged itself in his hand and blood welled and dripped down his palm. Pierre stared with a detached sort of interest. He knew it hurt but he couldn’t actually feel anything which just made Pierre become more vacant. He was numb and lost, floating in this cold void and unable to leave. A sudden feeling of deep resignation took his body and he stood and picked the glass from his hand. He adjusted his spectacles and went to his room to change and wash himself. He felt stiff, as if he did not quite fit in his body and was having trouble understanding how to move. He left from refreshing himself looking a great deal better but feeling as cold and empty as before. Anatole saw him walking to his room and sent his sparkling smile in Pierre’s direction.

 

        “Ah, hello Pierre! Studying, eh?” Pierre nodded, Anatole’s upbeat and genuine smile choking him slightly. Kuragin was, of course, undaunted by Pierre’s melancholy silence. “I’m off to the club for a night of entertainment. Care to join?”

 

        Pierre sighed and looked at the window. Why should he not? If nothing mattered what was stopping him from going out? Either way he was drinking and most likely being mocked, whether by himself or the people around him- why did it matter? His books told him nothing and helped only to pull him further into his depression. He turned his gaze almost gratefully upon Anatole. How kind he was to invite him out.

 

        “Pierre?”

 

        “Yes, yes, I will come.”

 

        “Lend me 50 rubles?” Pierre nodded and Anatole clapped him on the shoulder. Why shouldn’t Pierre give his brother-in-law money? What did it matter anyway?

 

        “Good man. Let us go!”

 

        The club was a cheap one, full of alcohol and whores and smoke. Pierre didn’t pay much mind to anything but the alcohol, although the smoky air did make him feel a bit like he was choking. The sensation was slightly frightening but not unwelcome - after all it was something to feel. The thought passed over Pierre’s mind that he should die. This was not the first time such a thought had come to him. At first it had come accompanied by a deep feeling of horror at his own mind. Now it came like everything else did, with a withdrawn yet deep sadness that he’d become so accustomed to that it almost felt like nothing.

 

        It persisted as he looked out upon the club from his place by the bar. Anatole was flirting shamelessly with a group of 3 young women. Others were pressed closely together and removing themselves in pairs, doubtlessly for nights of debauchery. He realized with a sudden dulled ache that he hadn’t been touched in quite a long time. Even a hand to his cheek, a soft kiss or gentle embrace. _Of course not,_ his mind spat at him, _those touches require someone to love you._ The thought that he should die swelled into an all-encompassing want. He wanted to die, plain and simple, and end the numb and uncaring suffering that had become his life. What else was there for him to do? Where else could he turn? Every small hope that came to him turned on its head and pushed him more and more into the tangle of darkness that devoured him. What other answer was there?

 

        Pierre wanted to die and it didn’t even scare him anymore. He left the stifling air of the club and stood in the freezing winter outside. His face was flushed from the alcohol in his blood and, shaking with cold without his coat, he let himself fall backwards into the snow. It was icy to the point of stinging him and he let out a deep sigh. He didn’t know how long he’d been there, cradled by the snow and staring up at the mocking stars. Curiously, Anatole staggered out of the club and found him lying there.

 

        “Pierre? What the devil are you doing? You’ll catch your death out here like this.” His speech was slightly slurred and he laughed loudly at his own stumbling words. A soft sigh escaped Pierre as Anatole reached his hand out to help him up. To his surprise Anatole wrapped his arms around him in a giggling embrace.

 

        “Such a silly man. Out to the club and you lie in the snow.” He was very clearly drunk. Pierre was as well and something drove him to speak, although he had no idea what.

 

        “Anatole. What do you think would happen if I were to die tonight?” Anatole’s face screwed up in confusion then he waved his hand.

 

        “What sort of question is that, dear man? _Mon cher,_ such a heavy load to give me! If you were to die- really, you must be joking! A sad topic such as that has no place in this night of enjoyment. Now come back inside and forget such a gloomy topic.” Anatole slung an arm around him and pushed him back inside. This was not the reaction that Pierre had expected and it comforted him slightly. Anatole seemed genuinely upset by the idea. Pierre knew that come tomorrow the empty ache would fill him again but the company brought brief respite. He did not die that night.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any requests for War and Peace fanfiction let me know! I tend to write short things, but I am open to any and all requests and if you have an idea or something you want to read let me know in the comments or email me at amomeneedup@gmail.com. Thank you!


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